The Twelve Ideas of Christmas #8

Chapter One

Olivia

Is this recorder on? Good. I am stating for the record that I did not kill Angus McShea. I never met the man, never heard of him before his murder, and never saw him after he escaped custody in Boston. Of course I saw the news broadcasts about his body being found on Julian Caine’s front doorstep. All that blood made it look like he’d painted his deck to match a red ‘Vette. But the body had already been removed.

For your information I’ve never murdered anyone. I’ve been tempted to, but I always figured no one was worth going to the electric chair. Not even my ex-husband, whose continued presence on the same planet with me may be worse than me being electrocuted.

You should know, however, that as soon as she gets out of prison I’m going to kill Emma Jones. She’d a dead woman walking, right now. No, you know, first I’m going to burn the novel we’ve been writing together, because she’s made it impossible for me to finish. Also, destroying it will make our new editor cry.

What? Speak up, young man. Mumblers are the bane of my existence. You can talk louder, I can’t listen closer. That would require me to sit in your lap.

Why make her cry? Because I can’t stand our new editor. Have you ever met one of those women who exercise so much they should twang when they walk? Like they’re made of rubber bands, yes. And she’s also vegan. A rabid vegan. A rabid militant exercise harpy of a vegan. She tried to shame me the minute she found out I eat chicken. Not red meat, not veal, but chicken. Just in case you’re wondering, I also eat fish, shrimp and the occasional sea scallop when they’re on sale (I can’t spend $13.99 a pound on the little shellfish ring dings. They’re not that tasty.)

Anyway, I think all vegans should be sent to Mars so they can survive on hydroponically grown algae or whatever while I can have my fried chicken in peace here on Earth. My mother taught me how to make it, and she was from Maryland. Men worshipped her for her chicken. The governor of Maryland proposed to her because of it. She dumped him and married a penniless car mechanic who got bone cancer about a minute after she got pregnant with me.

Yes, well, Mama wasn’t good at picking men, either.

I can make fried chicken almost as well as she did. Why do you think the dogs love me so much? It’s not because of my sparkling personality. Back to Emma – I mean it, she’s history. Once our manuscript has started a nice blaze I’m going to toss her into the fire pit. Or maybe I’ll borrow my neighbor’s mechanical spit and roast her over the flames. He’s done an entire goat on that. Emma is skinny, so it shouldn’t take long. I can feed whatever doesn’t scorch to my Shelties.

No, that evil harpy’s flesh would probably poison my dogs.

Do you know why writers should never be friends? We’re self-absorbed book-loving jackasses, that’s why. I love books more than people, almost more than my dogs. And yes, I love writing books even more. More than people or my dogs. More than food or air or that really good chocolate from the little French place downtown. I never want to leave my house. If it wasn’t for the fact that I’d starve or run out of new books to read, I probably never would.

I could grow my own food, but go without the latest Sarah Addison Allen novel? I’d rather be roasted alive.

Now I admit, Emma I’ve tolerated, and only because she can write a decent chapter without dangling modifiers over a pit of unparalleled constructions. She talks too much, and she definitely panics too easily, but she brings me toner cartridges and those heavy-ass boxes of printer paper when they’re on sale. For a writer, that’s like champagne and diamonds. All I have to do in return is make her tea and shortbread, give her some pithy advice I’ve already told her in another form five hundred times, and she’s happy. The blessings of the simple-minded. She also uses the proper words for sex. I cannot deal with women who pretend the word fuck doesn’t exist.

What advice do I give her? None of your fucking business.

*

I got about 6.1K finished of Haunted House Style, the sequel to Ghost Writer, back in 2017 before I had to bail on NaNoWriMo. Although I usually avoid writing characters who are writers, I do love Olivia and Emma. Since the story is told from both of their POVs it would be a delight to write. Haunted House Style is Idea #8.